Cycles
by SSBB.Swords
Summary: Sure, he looked calm and unaffected, but beneath all that composure and sophistication, he was just another person secretly in love with some guy walking a dog. [One-shot, Modern AU] -Yaoi, slash: Ike/Marth-


_**Author's Notes:**__ Another modern AU? Before you grab your torches and pitchforks, wait, I can explain!_

_1. "We know so little about what Marth thinks…" (Histeria, in reference to __Stasis__)_

_Such a good point! I don't write Marth's POV often (maybe about 40% of the time, and decreasing because __Stasis__ is in Ike's POV), especially in terms of crushing on Ike. If we ignore the stories where the attraction is obviously mutual, the score is Marth-0, Ike-4. (LOL, oh, geez… how did _that _happen?)_

_2. "There are very few times that I have felt as gut-wrenchingly UNCOMFORTABLE AND ASHAMED as this fic has made me." (StarlitHorizons, in reference to __Speculative Impromptu: Wiped__)_

_Now that I think about it, my writing _has_ gone a bit dark and twisty, ever since the conception of __Speculative Impromptu__._

_Therefore, I present to you __Cycles__ in order to even the Marth-Ike odds and re-establish fluffy equilibrium. (And test whether I can actually write Marth-crushing-on-Ike, what with that strange, reserved personality that I've assigned him.)_

_**Warnings:**__ Yaoi, shounen-ai, slash, etc. Un-beta'd. _

_**Pairing(s): **__IkeMarth._

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Super Smash Brothers._

_**Summary: **__Sure, he looked calm and unaffected, but beneath all that composure and sophistication, he was just another person secretly in love with some guy walking a dog. _

* * *

Cycles

By SSBBSwords

* * *

There was this guy.

Every morning at around half past six, there was this guy who walked by his house and overgrown garden with a spirited golden retriever. No one should look that lively so early in the morning, human or furry quadruped, but the pair certainly pulled it off.

He did not know when he started noticing this. It just so happened one day he thought, '_There they go again.'_

He had considered how often he was awake this early, especially when he stayed up all night shaping clay, etching, or glazing, which was when he realized this epiphany did not occur because he had woken up early to bear witness, but because he had yet to go to bed. At some point, due to his night-owlish ways, he had somehow learned that this man and canine frequented his street in passing.

When he mentally ran through the short list of his neighbors, he came up blank. He knew too little about those who lived on parallel and adjacent streets to be able to place where this guy lived, so who knew how far the man was walking this dog a day.

Today was Monday, and he was standing at his kitchen sink, filling a glass with filtered water, when his tired eyes caught movement outside his window. This was nothing new by now. It was routine like his strange sleeping patterns and, in a way, just like clockwork.

Shuffling to his small glass-top table by the window, he took a seat and idly watched the energetic retriever trot by with owner in tow. The man was dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, which looked more athletic than sloppy on that kind of toned build.

What surprised him was how he had even noticed such a miniscule detail. He must have been paying more attention than he thought he could in a sleepless daze. Speaking of which, it was probably a good idea to go to bed now if he wanted to be functional later.

He woke up with time to spare before he had to leave to teach his ceramics class at the local college just twenty minutes away. He went about his business as usual, demonstrating this evening's technique of throwing a standard hand-sized bowl, before leaving his students to their own devices. When he returned home, he continued to work on a commissioned vase until his workspace was lit up because the sun was rising in the sky.

When he emerged from his little studio to prepare a pot of tea in the kitchen, he happened to glance outside and startled upon recognition of the guy out walking with the dog again.

When had he become completely nocturnal?

He approached the window to study the man crossing his line of sight. Today's attire consisted of a warm-up jacket and pants. The happy retriever stopped to sniff the base of his mailbox, which he had forgotten to check yesterday.

And as further testament to his mind's odd processing skills, he found himself musing out loud, "The dog got a haircut."

* * *

Then a day arrived when he was sketching out a pattern to be glazed onto a bisque-fired plate when his peripheral registered the duo approaching.

Setting the pencil down on the tabletop and confirming that it did not plan to roll off anytime soon, he rested his head on one propped up palm and watched the pair pass. Again, the golden retriever lavished unnecessary attention on his mailbox, which he had thankfully remembered to empty the previous afternoon.

That was when the owner glanced up and caught him staring.

An abrupt wave of disconcertion swept over him, and he hastily stood from his seat and receded deeper into his kitchen and out of public view.

'_That was embarrassing,'_ he thought uncomfortably, as he braced himself against the washing machine by the back door. He had just been found out, and it wasn't like he had meant to look nosy. Or creepy. Or crazy. Or… whatever adjective people used when labeling people who stared intently and consistently at… well, _anything._

He waited for a long span of five minutes before he ventured back to his seat by the window.

Of course the street would be empty. He breathed out a sigh of relief that he did not know he had been holding.

It would probably be a good idea to avoid this desk for a while, at least between the morning hours of six and seven. Imagining just how strange his scampering escape must be looked, he winced. The guy had to think he was a nutcase. _He_ thought he was a nutcase already, and he was a decent judge of character—even if it was his own.

Still shaken, he sat on the edge of the chair like he was ready to bolt again. He picked up the writing instrument as if it would motivate him to continue his design, but he dropped it with a huff. He was just too agitated. His reaction had been ridiculous. He was a grown man, for heaven's sake, and his instinct was to run away? (and from exactly what?)

His original plan of avoidance was swiftly tossed into his mental Recycle Bin, and he resolved that tomorrow would be a different day.

So fast-forward about twenty-three hours and fifty-four minutes later, he was pacing between his wood-burned cabinets and wandering between his kitchen and living room.

He was going to do this.

No, he wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair, and worried wildly that it was frizzy from humidity while simultaneously dirty from that night's attempt of oil painting.

Yes, he _was_ going to do this.

He returned to his kitchen and resumed his anxiety-ridden footsteps in front of his stove instead. Right.

Maybe he could… he had a sudden flash of inspiration. He grabbed the most current issue of _Ceramic Arts_, flinging it rather haphazardly on the glass surface, and grabbed for an ignored canister of tea bags. It didn't matter what kind of tea it was—anything that he wouldn't mind abandoning should he end up retreating.

But then it was seven-thirty, and all he had left was a cup of cold tea, unread magazine, and disappointment.

* * *

He spent an entire jittery week wallowing in self-doubt and criticism. One moment, he was certain he had freaked the guy out so badly that he would never see the man and dog again, and then the next moment, he was knocking his head against a pillow because he could tell he had become the epitome of insane.

On some mornings, he sat there by the quaint window that streamed in sunlight and knew for sure that he was blowing things out of proportion. That no normal individual would think twice about a house's occupant sitting by the window. And, in his case, that no normal individual should be this ashamed of being interested in a stranger.

Which he was. Interested, he meant. Absence unfortunately seemed to have made the heart grow fonder.

Now, he was mostly determined to ignore this turn of events, because seriously, he knew nothing of this man aside from the fact that the guy owned a golden retriever that had a strong affinity to the wooden post of his mailbox. So what if he thought the tall man was kind of handsome. And seemed like a nice guy.

Wasn't that what most people thought of serial killers?

Oh, god, there went his mind off the deep end again.

This could all be rectified if he just introduced himself and met the guy, but his planning skills obviously left something to be desired, seeing as the last attempt failed and he never did see the man walk by with the dog ever since.

So with the disappearance of the pair, he really didn't see the harm in sitting there. Although maybe he should reconsider trying to grade term papers while half-asleep like this. Again, when had he gone nocturnal? And this could not be healthy.

He really must have been tired, because when he finally took a break from reading a god-awful essay about Mayan and Greek pottery, he found himself staring into a familiar-but-still-unfamiliar pair of eyes from across his front lawn. He broke the eye contact long enough to absent-mindedly note that the dog must have circled around his mailbox, because the leash had looped the post at least once.

Locking gazes with the man again with no indication of discomfort, he managed a rather mechanical nod of acknowledgement, very glad to be safely encased within the walls of his home so that his breathless reaction remained secret.

The guy with the dog nodded back, and the only difference between their exchange of tacit greeting was the other's slight smile, like the man was undecided on whether to go with friendly or polite and settled on half of a smile instead. Then the leash was unwound, and with a furiously wagging tail, the pet and owner continued down the street like they had done so many times prior.

A few seconds ticked by before the corners of his own mouth lifted. That went well.

Glancing down, he saw that his red pen had dragged jaggedly across the student's paper, and he groaned in exasperation.

* * *

Their next close encounter was surprisingly spontaneous. Sure, there had been several times over the passing weeks that they had exchanged glances or nods (and maybe even a wave or two) through the window, but they had yet to actually speak to one another.

He kept insisting to himself that if he _wanted_ to talk to the guy, it would have happened already.

Avoidance. He might as well have an advanced degree in it.

But so came a day, after he studied the chaos of his garden, where he decided he really ought to do something about the overgrowth of weeds. Maybe his lawn would not look so terrible if he cut that semi-circle of grass by the sidewalk.

When he checked the clock, it was not even six o'clock in the morning, and figuring he had plenty of time before any pedestrians would cross his path, he grabbed an old pair of gardening gloves and set out on his mission to do some yard cleanup.

He lost himself in the repetitive action of digging and tossing tufts of weeds onto a plastic sheet to be later dumped into his green yard trimmings container. Then slicing through his hazy negligence to his surroundings was a distant bark from down the street. His head shot up from where it originally had been staring quite attentively at the ground, and as if on autopilot, he stripped the gloves off, brushed off any stray particles of dirt, and headed inside.

As the screen door swung close behind him, he couldn't help wonder why in the world he was hiding in his living room. Well, other than the very obvious reason of not wanting to meet this guy just yet.

Lifting a corner of the curtain, he sneaked a peek around the edge of the window, and was treated to a scene of owner rescuing his gardening gloves from excited dog, which he found strangely lovable. The golden retriever must have been overly enthused about _something,_ seeing as the pair had traveled half a block in record time of the fifteen seconds it took for him to withdraw indoors.

It was important to remark on the easily missed glance the man took toward his (vacant) kitchen window, but hey, he would celebrate that sign later when he wasn't busy shrouding himself in a length of drapery.

Patiently waiting for the pair to leave (and then slowly counting to a hundred), he belatedly returned to his yard to find his gloves placed innocently on top of his mailbox.

If he hadn't been acting like such a stalker, he probably would have been astonished that garden tools could grow legs and move themselves to higher terrain.

He finished his de-weeding for the day and jotted down some reminders to mow the lawn and trim the hedge. After further scrutinizing his neglected garden, he decided he also wanted to redo the steppingstones leading to his front door, and for some reason, the urge to create a rabbit for yard décor was winning over the call of his bed.

* * *

He would have found their first real meeting to be comical if he hadn't felt like a nervous wreck.

That morning, he had artfully placed a realistic clay model of a dark-brown rabbit to be half-obscured by the tall sprouts that grew around his mailbox. He had also pulled up half a dozen stones, stacking them by his front door as a reminder to create a new scheme of tiles for the path to his porch. Then he had gone inside to take a shower, which served not only to wash away all the grime but to distract him from obsessively watching the man's reaction to the newest addition to his garden.

He heard his doorbell just seconds after he had shut off the water. Questioning whether or not he had dreamt up the chime, he shrugged to himself and proceeded to run a towel across his damp hair and body, just enough so that he wasn't soaking wet.

Then he heard the doorbell _again_. Looking up at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered if everyone looked like a deer in the headlights when someone was at the door out of the blue.

Making a swift decision that company (of _any_ kind) did not deserve to see him disheveled and unkempt, he reached for the easiest, unstained pair of clothes he owned for days he did not spend in a studio or garden. Comfy black shirt and pants. Done.

Pulling aside the living room curtain, his eyes widened just as the golden retriever gave three consecutive introductory barks at him through the window. Okay, _not done._

No, actually, what? He was not going to change for this. He firmly grasped the doorknob, pulled it open, and found himself face-to-face (well, collarbone) with the tall dog-owner, separated by the screen door.

"I'm sorry," he said, inwardly hoping he sounded as well-mannered as he liked to appear. "Were you waiting long?"

The guy frowned and the grip on the leash tightened. The man looked almost embarrassed, and was running a free hand through partially spiked hair. "No, actually, _I'm _really sorry."

'_I like his voice,'_ he thought vaguely, just as he faintly asked, "What's wrong?" The golden retriever nosed the screen door as if affronted by the barrier.

The owner's expression turned into a grimace, which was quickly covered in mortification, before the guy admitted in a dejected tone, "My dog peed on your rabbit."

He found himself speechless. His mouth must have dropped open at the declaration, because he had to close it and try again, which resulted in the worst stumbling incomplete sentence he had ever failed to formulate in his life. "I… your… w-what?"

"My dog," the man supplied, looking ashamed, which was indicated by his broad form slumping, "urinated on your rabbit. I'm _so _sorry—"

"—It's alright," he finally found his voice, and managed to complement it nicely with a forgiving smile. "Nothing a rinse from the hose can't solve." Never mind the fact that it was porous clay.

"Yes, well…" the dog owner agreed but then slowly added, "It may become a daily occurrence."

He pushed open the screen door wide enough for the pet to wedge its furry head through and encourage the fissure. He crouched down to pat the delighted retriever and replied, "I'll be expecting you then."

* * *

_**-fin-**_

* * *

_**Author's Notes: **__Thanks for reading! When school and/or work is getting you down… here, have some IkeMarth._

_Feedback much appreciated. :)_

_Also, if you are a fan of speculative fiction, go to my profile to vote for the next AU, pending on the completion of __Stasis__._


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